


Death of Morality

by Brokenwords



Series: The Virtue of Corruption Verse [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Future, BAMF!Stiles, Future Fic, M/M, Off-screen Character Death, badass stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2013-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-27 09:10:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/660254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brokenwords/pseuds/Brokenwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The seats were hard vinyl connected to metal poles and harsh grating. Two years ago Stiles would have never imagined himself in this situation, but two years ago his father had still been alive and the things that went bump in the night belonged only in his nightmares. Now it was almost laughable, the guard up front, the cuffs on his wrists, the sway to and fro of the armoured prison transport chugging through the morning mist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death of Morality

_I raise my flags, don my clothes_  
 _It's a revolution, I suppose_  
 _We're painted red to fit right in_  
 _Whoa_  
  
\- Imagine Dragons: Radioactive 

The seats were hard vinyl connected to metal poles and harsh grating. Two years ago Stiles would have never imagined himself in this situation, but two years ago his father had still been alive and the things that went bump in the night belonged only in his nightmares. Now it was almost laughable, the guard up front, the cuffs on his wrists, the sway to and fro of the armoured prison transport chugging through the morning mist.

Murder of the first degree. It didn't matter that the hunters he'd shot with his dad's old gun had been killers themselves, the kind that failed to distinguish between those of the supernatural persuasion, sympathizers and just collateral damage. He hardly saw the crime in ridding the world of them. Besides, _they_ had taken the life of his only remaining blood relative, the one person he'd sworn would never get involved, it was only right he avenge that. If that revenge overlapped with wreaking havoc beside the very things those men had come to hunt, well that was merely a coincidence. The police couldn't blame the claw marks on him, the gun though, that may have been a give-away. Poetic though, and worth it. Especially since Stiles didn't plan on letting anyone lock him up for long.  
  
A small smirk tipped at his lips and the prisoner next to him actually shuffled closer to the window. It made him laugh, low and deep. Derek would be proud; Stiles intimidation skills had increased exponentially. Maybe his reputation preceded him, or maybe he just looked fucking insane smiling on the way to what most considered hell (though he doubted anyone on this bus knew what hell really was). Either way, Stiles felt a flutter of pride. For better or worse, he wasn't a spastic kid anymore. He might be only human, but his clumsiness had been trained into slickness, baby fat melting into sleek wiry muscle and flailing hands into weapons. The first person who’d tried to fuck him up in jail while he’d been awaiting his trial had received a fist to the throat and a concussion. The second guy had been bigger, angrier. He only fell harder and Stiles had laughed in his face. They all thought he was a pretty mouth and big sad eyes and they were wrong. He’d trained with werewolves, and the only man he tipped his neck for was his Alpha. One man, no matter how much muscle and intent, hardly frightened him anymore. Stiles got off on claws cradling his hips and teeth worrying the tendons in his neck, on bringing a red-eyed creature of the moon to his knees to kiss his thighs. And when he wasn’t letting Derek fuck away the fear inside him, the pain of loss they both shared, he was fighting creatures that could suck the soul out of your chest and witches who wanted blood for power. So no, he wasn’t a spastic kid afraid of his shadow anymore. He was only human, but he was fucking scary.

He’d only been caught because he’d gone back to the house to say goodbye. Because he’d made Derek and the others wait for him outside of town. They were probably pissed at him now, but it was hardly a new sensation. They’d forgive him as soon as they had him back.

The trial itself had been a joke, the evidence piled up in the blood splattered over his red hoodie, the sticky finger prints on a familiar gun, the DNA in the spit on the faces of his victims. The fact that said victims were known criminals - had guns of their own and warrants a mile long - only turned him into at a vigilante at worst and a kid soaked so deep in hurt that he tipped over the edge of sanity at best. He remembered the shuttered look on the face of the judge as he slammed down the gavel and demanded order in the court, a man who’d watched Stiles grow up. Or the disappointed horrified looks of the deputies who’d been forced to arrest him as they remembered the teenager who brought his dad celery sticks instead of fries for dinner. 

The law thought they knew Stiles, and maybe a few years ago they had. Now they were horrified of him with all the naivety of a world oblivious to the shades and shadows that coincided with the natural. He wasn’t the boy they remembered. Instead he was a young man too disturbed and dangerous to ever be free again. Stiles wondered if he should be grateful his father wasn't here to see what his son had become. There was no one to take away his badge because his son wasn’t following the rules, or look on him in judgement for not raising him properly. 

They were all fools. The Sherriff had done his job and he’d trained Stiles well. Look for the details, defend yourself, and help those who need it. Stiles did all of that. If he had to lie, hurt or steal to do it, he would. And if he was given the chance, he’d take the same gun and he’d kill the same men all over again, starting with the kneecaps and letting them bleed out all over the charred wood floor of the Hale house. After all, that was where they’d killed his dad months previous, kidnapped a fucking law official in a bid to draw out the human member of the pack, the weak link. Too bad they hadn’t known about his dad’s weak heart when they electrocuted him. 

It was one of the last mistakes they ever made, second only to thinking that Stiles was _weak_ and they were fucking lucky it was only bullets and claws they died from. He’d been tempted to burn them, just to add another level of revenge against the community of men and women who saw a creature and thought just because they weren’t ‘natural’ they deserved to die. Like Derek’s family had been snuffed out in smoke and flame. 

Twisting in his seat, Stiles let his eyes roam over the other passengers and out the barred windows. They were on their way down the highway, to the federal penitentiary, rocks and trees skimming by in a blur. He was the youngest by far, barely an adult, and yet as he gazed around no one would meet his eye. Not a single one. Who knew what crimes these men had committed to land themselves in a max prison - murder, rape, assault or just a long list of acts that stacked up – foul things the lot of them he was sure, and yet Stiles, _Stiles_ was the one they were afraid of. The boy whose victims were found slashed up, shot, and desecrated. The boy who’d lost everyone.

A shadow, dark as midnight, slid past the rumbling bus, faster than the wheels could turn, and Stiles felt his smile widen. Everyone was wrong. He had lost his father yes, even his mother, but he still had a family and they were bounded to him thicker than blood. They were a _pack_. And as the driver cursed, swerving to miss the man standing stock still in the middle of the road, Stiles took comfort in the fact that they would never abandon him. He was bound by the scars left on his hips, the scent of the alpha that clung to his skin. 

Tires squealed and metal crunched and curling in on himself Stiles rode out the shattering of glass, covering his eyes and waiting until he heard claws tear at metal and warm, familiar hands wrap around his arms. “Stiles,” his name was ground out between too many teeth as he was hauled out the window, over the wide-eyed body of his seat mate. Metal cuffs were snapped like twigs and stubble scraped his cheek as a face was buried into his neck, sucking inhale against his skin, too sharp teeth familiar points of pressure.

“I’m fine,” he mumbled as his feet touched asphalt, hands roughly checking for injury. For once it didn’t feel like too much of a lie. He was fine. He was alive, even if guilt stuck heavy in his gut. But that would never disappear, never fade. He'd made his bed though, curled up in broad arms and kissed away his innocence, and his father had paid the price. That wasn't something that could be forgiven - revenged, but never forgotten. 

“Never again,” Derek growled into his neck. Already pulling him down the road as a sleek Camaro pulled up and Erica pulled down her shades. 

“Need a ride boys?” She purred and Stiles felt an absurd laugh bubble up in his chest. The world was fucked up, he was fucked up, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t easy but he’d keep going and this time his only weakness left was a fucking werewolf and an Alpha at that. The world, the hunters, the law, they could bring it. Stiles had monsters to hunt and a pack to run with.

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently I've gotten sucked into the whole Teen Wolf fandom. But lets be honest, its a pretty awesome fandom.


End file.
